Mama's Like a Bird Now

Chapter One

Mama's like a bird now
Her soul's got wings to fly
With freedom, hope, and dignity
She soars the eternal sky
With keen eyesight she watches me
From her perch upon her tree
Making sure her young one's safe
Mama's like a bird now
 
Mama's like a bird now
Sitting on my shoulder
Sometimes she feels so close
I think that I can hold her
When her feathers brush my face
They leave behind a lovely trace
Of what my mama used to be
Mama's like a bird now
 
Mama's like a bird now
I think it's not so bad
She sings a beautiful song to me
When I'm feeling sad
One day I think I'll be one too
Til then I know just want to do
Keep all of mama's dreams alive
Mama's like a bird now


            One book I feel that has most aptly captured its subject matter is Maxine Harris’ “The Loss That is Forever”.  In this psychological compilation, Dr. Harris explains and exemplifies the affects of losing a parent in early childhood.  Indeed, this is a loss that is felt forever; it is one that shapes and molds the child for the rest of his or her life.  My mother died in May of 1986 when I was four years old.  Lupus was the culprit and robbery was the crime.  The earliest of my retrievable memories occurred after the death of my mother.  I remember my sixth birthday and the bike and the Snow White cake and the jealousy of my stepsister because I had received more than she had on her birthday.  Even the yellow polka-dotted dress and bouquet of balloons brings a fond smile to my face.  I remember my father’s wedding to Maxine, the woman I would know and love as my mother for most of my life.  I was the victim of maternal robbery because try as I may, I have always been unable to remember my mom.
           
            For many years, I had convinced myself that mom’s soul was also housed in my body.  I had dreams of living our lives together:  two souls in one body.  I would hear people talk about her still being with us and I would quietly laugh to myself “oh, you have NO idea!”.  It was as if I had the grandest secret and as long as I kept it to myself, no one and nothing could take her away from me again.  But then logic put on the ski mask, held me up at gunpoint, and stole my mother from me before I even had time to protest.  I somehow knew that it was illogical and highly improbable that my mother’s soul was residing in my body. So then I took to the sky.
           
             Even now, there are times when I look into the sky, that place where the clouds are parting and the sun’s peeking through, and I can see my mom.  I can see her watching me, loving me, and protecting me.  I see her in rainbows and shooting stars, eclipses and thunderstorms.  I feel her caress in the wind and I hear her voice in the natural sounds you hear when you slow down enough to experience life.  I learned early in life, probably around the age of 8, that wherever God existed, there too I could find my mom. And with a child’s natural innocence, I was able to see God in all the beautiful wonders of the world.  I marveled at all things natural because they reminded me of the omnipotence of our Creator and assured me that His plan was obviously for the best.  Solace.  Comfort.  Love.  My mom never left me; she simply transformed to exist in other entities.  Yet and still, the loss remains forever.
            
            Twenty six years later, I mourn my mother’s death. Every time I have a question I would want to ask her but can’t, I remember the robbery.  Becoming a mother myself was one of the scariest feelings because I couldn’t even remember my own mom.  For Warren’s entire fourth year, I lamented disremembering my mom, appalled at the consideration that if I had died, he would forget me too.  You mean all these nights without sleep, all the love and sacrifice, all the hugs, kisses and special moments would just be forgotten?  How could this child who I worked so hard every day for four years to give the very best just up and forget me?  How could I then, forget the woman who had given me that much?  Guilt began to eat away at me as I struggled with this comparison.
            
            I was robbed. I was cheated. But even worse (and most important), I was blamed.  Internally, but no less real.  I don’t mean to undermine the mother figures that impacted my life in a meaningful way.  Debbie Schroeder, Susan Warren, Rose Mary Lee, Sharon Cooley, Debbie Norris, Cynthia Salaam, Jackie Cox, Paula Blackwell, Lillie Brantley, Zeeyon Robin Walker, to name a few.  These women, along with the ones my father wed, have been an integral part of my life.   Through them, I learned the grace, the smile, and the love of a woman.  From them, I learned the power of my mind, the meaning of unconditional love, the benefit of an honest day’s work, the strength of a Godly woman, the truth behind the Black family, the potential of a single mother, and the unwavering, undying, unmatched, and underappreciated BEAUTY of the Black woman.  Those lessons transformed me; these women took me in as a child of their own.  They saw me as the motherless girl who wanted nothing more than to be loved. And love me, they did!  Still, tears well up in my eyes every time I think about what I could have learned from the woman who gave me life.
            
            I believe from her I could have learned about some of my quirky ways.  It’s the whole “nature versus nurture” debate.  Am I who I am because of my genetics or because of my upbringing?  I believe the answer is both.  From her, I could have learned about who I was as a baby/young child…you know, those things that Daddies just don’t remember!  Was I always talkative?  Did I show early signs of being intelligent?  How did I get along with my brothers?  Was I neat or messy?  Did I hate the color pink even then?  In missing mom, I feel I have missed a part of myself.  I consider what I’ve been told ALL my life, “you are JUST LIKE your mom” and it makes me wonder “am I?”  If so, then knowing who she was from firsthand experience would have helped me understand who I was, am, and will become.  Perhaps it wouldn’t have taken 25 years to realize that I was born to be an educator.  Maybe I would have known sooner the type of men I would be attracted to as well as the type of men who would not be any good for me.  Arguably, I would have known that I cannot change my natural disposition (which I have tried several times) and instead invest my time and energy into using it to my advantage instead of as a crutch or handicap.  I would have known the world is not ready for a soul like mine; but I would have rested assured that there was a special, designated place for it.  Or… everything could have unfolded just the way it did (as fate or destiny would have it) and having mom here would not have made a difference.  The point is, because she was stolen from me so soon, I will never know for sure. What I do know is that I got my name from her and I cherish that immensely.
           
             It seems simple enough.  T-A-N spells tan.  Add a y-a and you’ve got my name:  TANya.  But all through my primary education, I was forced to correct people who pronounced my name as though the ‘a’ was a short ‘o’ sound.  I was relentless when I came to teachers but more forgiving of others.  I can recall my 8th grade year in English class.  One day, we had a substitute teacher.  When she incorrectly called my  name during roll, I was shocked that I didn’t have to correct her.  The ENTIRE class retorted “it’s TANYA”.  Now in my adulthood, I’ve had people ask me “what’s the difference?”  Sometimes I reply by stating that one is my name and the other is not.  But the truth of the matter is, I wanna scream:
 
“IT’S ALL I HAVE LEFT FROM MY MOM SO STOP BEING A DICK ABOUT IT AND GET IT RIGHT!!!”
 
But when is it ever appropriate to say such a thing?!!!?
            
            I am not sure if the senility had already set in or if she was really telling the truth, but my grandmother said that she came up with my mom’s name as a thanks to God.  Being her only child, my grandma was THRILLED to have her baby girl.  She said from “Thank ya” she took out the ‘h’ and the ‘k’ and got Tanya – the name that would forever represent her appreciation for God’s gift.  Seems a bit of a stretch, but that’s what I’ve been told. So, it’s only fitting that I do my best to live up to the name, right?
           
            I have picked everyone’s brains and memories about my mom.  From my brothers (who were only 6 and 8 when mom died) to my father to her parents and stepparents. Unanimously, she is describe as the type of woman that I only hope I will be.  As a daughter, wife, mother, and friend, she represented the qualities that I strive for in my daily walk.  She was, without a doubt, a remarkable and irreplaceable woman.  She is my loss that is forever.